


but still nobody wants me

by like_theletter



Series: MCYT [10]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, But Also!, Child Neglect, Depression (implied), Disordered Eating, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insecurity, Isolation, Mental Health Issues, Neglect, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Sickfic, Toby Smith | Tubbo Needs a Hug, Toby Smith | Tubbo-centric, Unreliable Narrator, author is american and Trying, not the main focus - Freeform, there is some, wish there was a tag for platonic pining because that is the entire premise of this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29814087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/like_theletter/pseuds/like_theletter
Summary: Tubbo knows Tommy likes joking about them being brothers. Tubbo knows Tommy, period, knows it took him six months to start calling Wilbur his brother after he got adopted and even longer for Techno (at least, that’s what Tubbo’s been told) and that he’s very territorial about his family. And Tubbo knows he himself… doesn’t make the cut.And that’s fine. Totally fine. It makes sense.WhatTommydoesn’t know is that Tubbo’s sick and twisted and has a nasty habit of getting too attached. In his most shameful moments, he dreams about them being brothers; about him and Wilbur, him and Techno, him and Phil.Tubbo’s selfish, is what it is. He has perfectly good parents and yet his brain is insistent on him shoving himself somewhere he justdoesn’t belong.(Tubbo struggles to find his place.)
Relationships: Ranboo & Toby Smtih | Tubbo, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Phil Watson, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Technoblade, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot
Series: MCYT [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077845
Comments: 228
Kudos: 729





	1. my god, i'm so lonely

**Author's Note:**

> Work & chapter titles from Nobody by Mitski. 
> 
> sigh hey girl... 
> 
> i've never done a (successful) multichapter fic so i was really hesitant to post this but i'm hoping the feedback will be enough to motivate me!! KJSDHFKJS plus i have it all outlined and everything :D
> 
> important to note! this is _a_ real life au but it is unrelated to my OTHER real life au that i have the series for. i know it's confusing and i am so sorry ily guys
> 
> this work has heavy themes of child neglect and low self-worth, so if that triggers you PLEASE click off!! your safety is MOST important
> 
> enjoy :]

It’s third period when it all goes wrong. 

Which seems unfair, because third period is supposed to be good. Tubbo has Tommy in that class, and their new friend Ranboo, and the teacher is nice and the work isn’t too hard. But here Tubbo is, in third period. At the beginning of the end.

Ranboo had mentioned something about wanting to learn bass. That was really how it started. 

Class is nearly over, and they’re all packing up. Ranboo mentions something about wanting to learn bass, and then Tubbo thinks of Wilbur, and then Tubbo says— 

“Oh, you want to learn bass? That’s so cool! My brother Wilbur plays guitar and he’s learning piano—”

Tommy laughs. When Tubbo looks over at him, he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face, the kind that sends a healthy spike of dread through Tubbo’s chest. “What?” Tubbo says cautiously.

“Geez, at least call him  _ our  _ brother,” Tommy says, and slings an arm over Tubbo’s shoulders. “I didn’t spend all that time avoiding calling Wilbur my brother for nothing.”

Tubbo squints at him. What the hell is he talking about?  _ What did I say  _ is on the tip of his tongue but he runs back through his words mentally and— “My brother Wilbur.”

_ My brother. Wilbur. _

Oh, fuck.

Tubbo feels himself go bright red, cheeks burning. He opens his mouth to apologize and what comes out is a babbled mess of “ _Tommy’s_ brother, ha, I meant— I meant Tommy’s brother.”

Poor Ranboo tilts his head to the side, looking lost, and says, “Wait— wait. Sorry, I’m confused. Are you two—” he gestures to Tubbo and Tommy “—brothers or not?”

“No,” Tubbo says, at the same time Tommy says, “Not biologically.”

Tommy’s arm falls from Tubbo’s shoulders. He looks at Tubbo with a funny expression and then leans away a little bit, holding his elbows. If Tubbo didn’t know any better, he’d say Tommy looks… hurt. 

But here’s the thing. He  _ does  _ know better. 

Tubbo knows Tommy likes joking about them being brothers. Tubbo knows  _ Tommy,  _ period, knows it took him six months to start calling Wilbur his brother after he got adopted and even longer for Techno (at least, that’s what Tubbo’s been told) and that he’s  _ very _ territorial about his family. And Tubbo knows he himself… doesn’t make the cut.

And that’s fine. Totally fine. It makes sense.

What  _ Tommy  _ doesn’t know is that Tubbo’s sick and twisted and has a nasty habit of getting too attached. In his most shameful moments, he  _ dreams _ about them being brothers; about him and Wilbur, him and Techno, him and Phil. 

Tubbo’s selfish, is what it is. He has perfectly good parents and yet his brain is insistent on him shoving himself somewhere he just  _ doesn’t belong. _

And him  _ calling  _ Wilbur his brother? The final straw. He doesn’t know  _ what  _ the fuck he was thinking. 

Tubbo bites down on his lip, hard, ignoring the topic Ranboo and Tommy have uneasily moved onto. Sure, Tommy brushed it off, but Tubbo could hear the edge of possessiveness to his words, the edge of _back the fuck off he’s my brother not yours_ and _none of us even liked you in the first place_ and _we all wish you’d leave us the hell alone._

Okay.  _ Maybe _ that’s a bit of a stretch. 

But it’s not out of the question for him to be upset. After all, the title of  _ brother  _ is so important to him. Sixth months for Wilbur, Tubbo reminds himself. And Tubbo is no Wilbur. Not by a longshot.

Tommy seems to have moved on from it though, and as the bell rings and Ranboo hurries off to his next class, he turns to Tubbo. “You’re sleeping over tonight, right?” 

Tubbo blinks. “Oh, am I?” 

They leave the classroom and walk down the hall. Tommy pushes open the door to the courtyard and says, “I mean, your parents aren’t back for another…?”

“Week.” And two days. 

Tommy grimaces, just a little, hiking his backpack further up on his shoulders. “Week, right.” Then, hesitating, he says, “You’re— are you sure—”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Tubbo says, before they can get into this again. Tommy’s one of the kindest people Tubbo knows (despite his outward attitude) and doesn’t seem to understand that Tubbo can take care of himself. He’s always been able to.

But Tommy looks uncomfortable, and  _ worried _ in a way that needles at the base of Tubbo’s spine, so Tubbo adds, “I’m fifteen, I’m nearly an adult, anyway.”

Tommy looks like he wants to argue that, but instead turns away, long strides faltering, face twisting. “At least let me tell Phil,” he says quietly. 

“Tommy, no.” Tubbo grasps Tommy’s sleeve, voice urgent. “He already—”  _ worries about me too much,  _ is what Tubbo was going to say, but backtracks because he can picture Tommy’s reaction to that, “—has enough on his plate. He doesn’t need to feel like he has to take care of me.”

Tommy’s eyebrows furrow at that, but conveniently they arrive at Tubbo’s class before he can say anything. Tubbo gives him a cheery goodbye and a side-hug and they part ways, leaving Tubbo feeling uneasy as he always does when Tommy acts worried about his home situation.

His parents are good. That’s the truth. He’s met people — Tommy himself, even — who have gone through _awful_ things at the hands of their parents, and leaving your almost-adult kid alone for a little bit doesn’t even come close. And when they’re home they ruffle his hair and ask him about his day and make him dinner and do parent things. They’re _good_ parents.

Tubbo doesn’t need that much attention. They’ve always joked that he was like an air-fern, or a— or a succulent, or something, Tubbo doesn’t really remember, but the point is he’s very low-maintenance. He always has been. 

And Tommy’s nice to be concerned, but it’s unnecessary. Tubbo has everything he needs. The wishing for more is just— is just a fluke.

Regardless, Tubbo lets himself have tonight, lets himself settle into the idea of eating Phil’s home-cooked meal and bantering with Tommy and Techno. He can have that, he decides. That’s okay. 

-

Techno comes to pick Tommy and Tubbo up after school, which is good because it’s  _ pouring _ outside. The weather’s been terrible all week, as is characteristic of Spring, but at least it’s been a kind of warm rain. The cold doesn’t stick to Tubbo’s bones the way it does in the winter.

Tubbo likes being driven around by Techno, as much as he liked being driven around by Wilbur. Though Techno doesn’t play music and ask their thoughts on it like Wilbur used to, or do that horrible hilarious Australian accent, Techno sits back and lets them talk about their days, interjecting with dry quips that leave them struggling to talk through laughter. 

Tommy in particular seems to be in a good mood. Tubbo’s glad. They’ve gotten over Tubbo’s slip-up from earlier and now Tommy’s back to jostling and elbowing him to show affection, linking their ankles together in the backseat of the car. 

Tubbo thinks it’s hilarious that Techno makes them both sit in the back. Tommy is very vocal in his distaste for it.

Phil greets them at the door when they get home, ushering them inside with a pink umbrella and a scowl, cursing about the rain. They make small talk until Tommy loudly complains that his family’s crowding them and drags Tubbo up to his room to play video games. (Tubbo always wins at MarioKart. Tommy yells every time.)

Later, Phil’s making dinner, and Tommy and Tubbo are lounging in the living room, bathed in the warm light of the lamp on the side of the couch. Tommy’s arm is around his waist and his face is pressed into Tubbo’s shoulder. He's got that pout he always gets when he's hungry and has to wait to eat. 

“Hey,” Tubbo says. Blurts, more like. “When's Wilbur coming home next?”

Ah, it seems like he can't stop fucking up today. Tommy stiffens and sits up, crossing his arms. His face has set, downcast. “Spring break.”

“Oh.” That’s a good three weeks from now. 

“He said he’s ‘busy’ or some shit,” Tommy grumbles, affecting anger, but Tubbo knows him well enough to detect the hurt in his voice. 

Tubbo’s quiet. He needs to lighten the mood, so he says, “Probably necking uni girls.”

Tommy lights up at that. “Gross!” He says, and shoves Tubbo’s shoulder. “Ugh, do not  _ say  _ that, Tubbo, you stupid—”

They spend the rest of the time bickering and laughing until Phil calls them for dinner. 

Wilbur’s been at university for half a year now, and Tubbo— Tubbo misses him more than he’s ready to admit.

It’s embarrassing, that he’s gotten so attached to his friend’s older brother, and he wouldn’t dare complain about it when Tommy’s so devastated, but he likes to think Wilbur and him had been relatively close. Before, that is. They’d had many late-night kitchen talks, when Wilbur was up and about and Tubbo was struck with insomnia, Tommy sleeping in their blanket fort. Wilbur ruffled his hair once and Tubbo had glowed with happiness for days straight.

But Tubbo is no Tommy. He and Wilbur are not brothers, as much as he  _ wants  _ it, as much as he can feel the desire sitting thick and hurtful and aching in his chest. They’re not. And Tubbo’s accepted that, he just wishes his heart would get with the program. 

Tommy shakes him awake, that night, somewhere around 3am. 

“What?” Tubbo groans, batting weakly at Tommy’s face. Tommy grabs his wrist. “Why.”

“What was the name of our year six teaching assistant with the weird fuckin nose who always called us ‘little flowers?’”

Tommy’s backlit by the still-playing movie menu screen. He’s wearing pajama pants with Easter eggs on them. Tubbo wants to kill him. 

“Let me sleeeeeep.” Tubbo smushes his face into the pillow and reaches blindly to drag Tommy with him. It is too goddamn early for this. He manages to snag the front of Tommy’s t-shirt — which he realizes is probably Wilbur’s, given the obscure album cover — and pulls him down to the trundle bed, wrapping arms around him instantly and burying his face in Tommy’s chest.  _ Warm.  _ Tommy is always so warm. 

“Clingy,” Tommy says, and reaches over to turn the TV off. Tubbo’s chest twinges with hurt, but he ignores it, nestling in closer and shutting his eyes as Tommy pulls the blanket over the two of them. 

-

Going home from Tommy’s is always a disheartening experience. Tubbo isn’t— he’s not  _ mad,  _ about being left alone, he totally gets it, but it is and always has been a bummer to go from the warmth and light and laughter of Tommy’s house to his own. Cold. Empty. Quiet.

But he’s fine. He’s almost an adult, he can handle it. 

Tubbo unlaces his shoes and drops the house key on the dish he made in second year, clay clumsily painted and shaped with tiny eight-year-old hands. His parents were so happy when he showed it to them. He smiles slightly at the thought.

It’s not quite time for dinner yet, so Tubbo makes himself some tea, flicking on the lights in the kitchen and the electric kettle. It's shiny. He likes the rumble it makes as the water heats up. It fills the room nicely, chases away some of that cold silence. 

Tubbo uses the fancy French teapot his parents bought on one of their trips years ago, white with purple and pink flowers up the side, and a bee right in the middle. He named the bee a while ago, but he can never remember what, so he calls it a different name every time. 

He’s just uncapped the milk when his phone rings.

It’s his mum, which is odd, since they're not due to be back until Monday after next. They usually don't call very much during their trips. 

Tubbo fumbles the bottlecap in his haste to answer it, sending it clattering onto the floor. He rolls his eyes at himself and picks up the phone. 

“Hello?”

“Darling!” His mum says, and Tubbo smiles involuntarily. “How are you? How was your day?”

“It— it was good!” Tubbo’s face feels hot. He can’t even talk to his mum for the first time in days without stammering like an idiot. “Um, I’m good. How are you?”

“Aww, I’m good as well!” Tubbo sits blindly at the counter, tea going cold in front of him. He goes to take a sip before remembering he hasn’t put the milk in yet. “Listen, darling, I have good news and bad news.”

Tubbo’s heart jumps into his throat. “What?”

“So, your father and I are being moved to another subsector to work on a high-profile account,” and Tubbo’s hanging onto every word even if he doesn’t quite understand what that means, “which is good news for us, as it is a  _ very  _ big deal for the company and basically a promotion.”

“Congratulations,” Tubbo says, tapping the edge of his mug with the spoon, nervousness still lodged in his chest. “But, uh…”

“The bad news?” Tubbo hums. “It’s time sensitive because the client is vacationing in Boca soon, so your father and I are going to be gone for two more weeks.” 

Tubbo blinks. “Two more— so you’ll be back the…” he does some mental math, “twenty-sixth, instead of the nineteenth? That’s…” He swallows, gripping his arm, feeling a sudden urge to cry. “Um, that’s fine—” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry darling,” and she really does sound sorry, “but that’s two weeks  _ after  _ this trip is over. So, the third.” 

Tubbo’s silent. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, staring blankly at the coffeemaker. His chest hurts. It’s March 10th. He’s never been left alone that long.

“I really am sorry, love,” she says, frown evident, “but this is  _ very  _ important. Besides, you’ll be fine, won’t you? You can handle yourself.”

Tubbo finds his voice. “Yeah,” he says, then clears his throat. “Yes, of course I can.”

“That’s my little air fern,” she says affectionately. “So mature.” There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line. “Well, I have to get going, but it was lovely talking to you. Pay attention in school, and all that.” She laughs a little, the sound clear and bubbly. Tubbo feels a little sick. “I love you!”

Tubbo’s fingernails dig into the soft flesh of his arm. “Love you too.”

He’s not quite sure how long he sits there after she’s hung up, still holding his phone, tea long gone cold. He doesn’t know how to feel. He doesn’t know if he feels— anything.

He’s only startled out of his daze by a text from Tommy. It’s darkened considerably outside, which makes him nervous, and there’s a significant chill in the air that wasn’t there before. Tubbo pads to the hallway in socked feet and turns the thermostat up a few ticks. He should put on a sweatshirt.   
  
_Didn’t die on the way home did you Tubzo,_ Tommy’s written. The side of Tubbo’s mouth quirks up.

_ i did not,  _ he writes back, squinting.  _ srry meant to text whehn i gothome i forgot \ _

_ You seem like you want to call. you’re so Clingy _

Tubbo snorts, feeling a bit of the pressure on his chest lift. Talking to Tommy always does that. He presses the call button and Tommy picks up on the first ring. 

“Woah.”

“What!” Tommy snaps, immediately on the defense. Tubbo can practically see his outraged expression.

Tubbo smiles. “Nothing.”

“Good, because I’m fuckin’  _ pissed. _ ” And Tommy launches into an impassioned rant about this “stupid motherfucker” with a “ _ stupid _ haircut, real bald piece of shit” that leaves Tubbo holding back giggles. It’s eerie, how Tommy always manages to sense when he’s feeling down and make it better however he can.

Now, sitting next to the vent on his bedroom floor that’s blowing hot air, listening to Tommy on the phone, Tubbo feels much better. 

“What’re you up to?” Tommy asks, breathless from his rant, and Tubbo’s heart drops. 

He should tell him. That’s the logical thing to do. Besides, he owes Tommy that much.

But Tubbo doesn’t know if he can deal with it right now, when he feels so— fragile. Vulnerable. When his mum calling him  _ darling  _ still rings through his ears as he imagines being alone until next month. 

Plus, Tommy will be mad. Tommy’ll be mad and go off on his usual tangent about how his parents are “shit” and how “you just don't  _ do  _ stuff like that” and right now, feeling like this, Tubbo doesn’t know if he’d be able to disagree.

Which makes him a horrible child. Ungrateful. He doesn’t want to be ungrateful.

“Not much,” Tubbo says, after a beat too long. “Just— uh, probably gonna play some video games later. Do homework, and stuff.”

Tommy hums suspiciously, but gets cut off by Techno calling him for dinner. “Shut the fuck up, I’m coming!” He yells back, slightly muffled, presumably holding his hand over the microphone. “I gotta go. See you on Monday, Tubs. Text me if you wanna play on the realm together.” 

“Okay. See you Monday.”

Tommy pauses. “Love you,” he says, quieter. 

“Love you too,” Tubbo replies automatically, the ice in his chest melting a little.

Tubbo doesn’t end up getting any homework done, that night, nor does he play video games. Instead he puts on pajamas and makes spaghetti for dinner— overcooks it, and burns the sauce, but it barely tastes like anything going down anyway. He eats alone at the dining room table, pushing mushy pasta around his plate.

If he ignores the emptiness in his chest, Tubbo decides, the silence isn’t so bad.


	2. so i open the window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fully aware that this is about to make the situation and the tension in the air a million times worse, Tubbo says, “Um, about that.” 
> 
> Instantly, Tommy’s wary. “What?”
> 
> “My— my mum actually called me, and she told me that— that—” Tubbo’s finding it particularly hard to breathe, for some reason. Tommy grabs his hand and squeezes it. Tubbo can’t look, but he can feel the worry — or pity — radiating off of him, and it makes Tubbo want to crawl in a hole and die. He takes a deep breath. Just say it. “They’re gonna be back on the third, instead.”
> 
> There’s a terrible pause. “The third?” Tommy asks, and shit, his voice is shaking. “Like— like _April_ 3rd?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys i am so sorry i don't know what came over me
> 
> i have NEVER had this kind of feverish motivation to finish a fic before!!! it's insane!!! and i gotta give cred where cred is due to you guys for inspiring me <333 i was literally bLoWn aWaY by the feedback on last chapter and it makes me so so happy to see that so many of you guys are invested in this fic 
> 
> idk when next chapter will be! i'll probably start writing it right after posting this ell oh ell so who knows but give me until next week before you gather your pitchforks
> 
> anyway i'm late for theropay so that's all :] enjoy!!!

Tommy’s waiting for him outside the doors of the school, like every morning, and greets Tubbo by pelting him with an energy bar.

Tubbo watches as it bounces off his arm and falls to the ground. “Why,” he says, with the same flat intonation that it has all of the million times a day he says it to Tommy. 

“Did you— pick that up, that’s littering.” Tubbo rolls his eyes, but does so. “Did you eat breakfast?”

“No.”

Tommy whacks him on the arm. “E-fucking-xactly! We’ve got our English presentation today and if you pass out in the middle I’ll stab you. So.” He points to the energy bar. “Eat.”

Dutifully, feeling touched at Tommy’s concern (hidden under several layers of aggression, of course), Tubbo unwraps it and takes a bite as they walk into the school building. English is second period, and their teacher is one of the most boring Tubbo’s ever had.

He mentally runs through the presentation in his head during his first class. They made a powerpoint, but Tubbo’s memorized what he has to say so he doesn’t have to struggle to read it off the slide in front of the whole class. (He’s never making that mistake again.)

It goes well — as well as any of his school presentations do, which is to say no one laughs at him — and Tommy gives him a blinding grin as he gets back to his seat. 

His other few classes pass in a blur before  _ finally  _ it’s lunchtime. Ranboo’s not there when he and Tommy get to their table, which is odd.

Tommy hums, looking at his phone. “Ranboo says he’s got a meeting with the counselor, so he’s gonna be late. That bitch.”

“Ah.” 

Tommy pulls out his lunch, which is chips, a sandwich, fruit, and a brownie. Tommy eyes the note in it with disgust. “Goddamnit,” Tommy says, picking it up with two fingers like it’s hazardous. “He must have slipped that in while I wasn’t looking.”

Tommy’s long since stopped having Phil pack his lunches for him, but they never quite could settle on whether he was too much of a  _ big man  _ for Phil to leave notes for him. Tubbo supposes “never quite settling” means “whoever gets to the lunchbox first.”

Tubbo picks up the note.  _ Have a good day, mate,  _ it reads.  _ Don’t punch anyone. Even if they’re really stupid. Love, Phil. _

Tubbo swallows hard. He sets it back down on the table and pulls out his lunch. It’s sparse, just some apple slices and crackers, because he forgot to go grocery shopping over the weekend and he’s out of basically anything substantial. 

Tommy notes his pathetic excuse of a lunch and his jaw actually  _ drops.  _ So dramatic. He gets it from Wilbur. “ _ What  _ is that,” he demands.

“I forgot to get groceries, okay?” Tubbo holds up his hands in self-defense. “We were out of microwave meals.” 

Tommy’s brows knit together. His expression is somewhere between worried and angry, and Tubbo can’t look at it for too long, so he goes back down to his meal. “That’s not a fucking lunch,” he hears Tommy grumble. 

“I’m— I’ll go shopping today, or tomorrow, okay?” Tubbo says down to the table, breaking one of his crackers into pieces. 

Tommy sighs. “I just—” When Tubbo looks up at him, his expression is pained. He looks away just as quickly. “You shouldn’t— when are your parents getting home, again?”

Oh, fuck. Fuck. 

Fully aware that this is about to make the situation and the tension in the air a million times worse, Tubbo says, “Um, about that.” 

Instantly, Tommy’s wary. “What?”

“My— my mum actually called me, and she told me that— that—” Tubbo’s finding it particularly hard to breathe, for some reason. Tommy grabs his hand and squeezes it. Tubbo can’t look, but he can  _ feel  _ the worry — or pity — radiating off of him, and it makes Tubbo want to crawl in a hole and die. He takes a deep breath. Just say it. “They’re gonna be back on the third, instead.”

There’s a terrible pause. “The third?” Tommy asks, and  _ shit _ , his voice is shaking. “Like— like  _ April  _ 3rd?”

Tubbo nods.

“That’s— holy fuck, that’s almost a month.”

“Three weeks,” Tubbo says weakly. “It’s not—”

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘it’s not a big deal,’ I’m going to strangle you.”

Tubbo shuts his mouth _.  _ That’s… actually exactly what he was going to say.

“They shouldn’t be fucking leaving you alone that long,” Tommy continues, voice low and angry. 

Tubbo’s skin crawls. “They know I can handle myself. I’m almost an adult.”

Tommy’s silent for a long time. “Tubbo, look at me.” 

He does. Tommy looks near-heartbroken with pity. Tubbo knows telling him was the best decision, but he can’t help but regret it a little, when it makes his best friend look at him like a kicked puppy. 

“You shouldn’t— you shouldn’t have to do all that shit. You’re—” His face twists with frustration, and he swallows hard. Tubbo hates, hates,  _ hates _ that he’s caused his best friend pain. “I have to tell Phil.”

“Tommy,  _ please  _ don’t,” Tubbo begs, grabbing Tommy’s warm hands with his own cold ones. “Please. He’s going to do something insane, like— like adopt me or something, and—”  _ I couldn’t stand to be part of your family knowing it’s only out of pity.  _ “My parents are good. They’re— they’re trying their best.”

“Their  _ best _ ?” Tommy demands, outraged.

He opens his mouth to continue, but the universe is kind to Tubbo for once and Ranboo walks up before he can. Tommy slams his mouth shut with a  _ click _ and fixes Tubbo with a glare that says  _ We are talking about this later.  _ Tubbo politely pretends not to see.

He looks instead at Ranboo, who exudes nervousness and is holding a small package in his hands. “Um, hi, guys,” he says. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” says Tubbo, at the same time Tommy grumbles, “Yes.”

Tubbo closes his eyes, takes a short, sharp breath, and smiles. “What’s up, Ranboo, my beloved?”

Ranboo’s face, which was already pretty red before, goes somehow even redder at the nickname. “Um, w-well, I was— I just, uh,  _ happened _ to be baking yesterday, and I wanted to thank you guys for being, like, um, my first friends at this school, and for being nice to me— well, not  _ nice,  _ but, like, accepting me into your group and stuff, so—” He takes a deep breath and sets the package on the table. “Cookies. I— I made you cookies.”

Tommy’s mouth drops open again. This time, Tubbo’s in agreement.

“What the fuck,” Tommy says, and tears open the package to reveal two warm, melty chocolate chip cookies. God almighty. They look perfect. “Where the fuck did you  _ find _ him?” he says to Tubbo.

Tubbo, meanwhile, is fighting tears. Here he is, feeling all sorry for himself, but people like him. Some people, even, are nice enough to do nice things for him for no reason. He doesn’t know what this emotion is that’s filling his chest but there sure is a  _ lot _ of it and oh God, his eyes are welling up at an alarming rate. 

“Oh no, I’m sorry!” Ranboo says frantically. “I— I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Tommy’s head snaps over to look at Tubbo, then, who’s barely holding it together. His expression softens and he scoots over to wrap an arm around him. 

“It’s just— it was just really nice of you,” Tubbo says, trying and failing to keep his voice from coming out all wet and wobbly. “You didn’t have to do it, and— and it was nice.”

Tommy gives him a squeeze and another concerned look, then turns his attention to Ranboo. “If you think you’re able to buy Tubbo’s best friend spot with a couple of cookies, you’re fucking stupid,” he says haughtily, then relents. “But it was cool of you. I guess.”

Ranboo smiles, but the worried quirk in his eyebrows doesn’t relax. 

Impossibly, Tubbo feels warm inside.

-

Tommy has detention after school — for what, Tubbo doesn’t remember — so Tubbo mentally prepares himself to walk the fifteen minutes home in the rain. Leaning against one of the brick walls of the school hallway, people filtering past him, chattering, he roots through his backpack and realizes he's forgotten his umbrella. 

Great. 

Tubbo bites back a groan and stands, pulls his backpack back on, flips the hood of his sweatshirt up. This will have to do. If his books get wet, he might cry again.

But when he walks outside to the parking lot, he sees Techno’s car. 

Oh, shit. Techno probably hasn't been told about Tommy’s detention. He's gonna be pissed that he drove all the way here for nothing. 

Tubbo strides up to the window and knocks on it, wincing at how his sweatshirt instantly soaks through. Techno rolls down the window with a flat look. 

“Tommy's got detention today,” Tubbo says. “Sorry.”

“I know that.” 

Tubbo pulls his hand off the car door and cocks his head to the side. “Wh— then why—”

Techno’s expression goes flatter, somehow. 

Tubbo raises his eyebrows. “You came to pick  _ me _ up?” 

“As much as I enjoy watchin’ you have this revelation,” Techno says dryly, “if you stay out there much longer, you're going to get my car seat wet. And then I'll have to kill you.” 

Tubbo nods, shocked, and moves to get in the back, but Techno says, “The child isn't here. You can sit in the front.”

There's that warm feeling again. Tubbo’s terrified that he'll start to get used to it. 

“God, you’re gonna make me cry again,” Tubbo says, only half-joking. 

Techno grimaces uncomfortably. “Uh. Please don't.” Tubbo laughs, trying to dissolve the fragile feeling in his chest. 

He and Techno aren't as close as he is with Wilbur or Tommy, but there's something undeniably comforting about him. He's socially awkward, non-judgemental, doesn't show much emotion. Easy to talk to, in a different way than his brothers are. 

For a terrifying moment, Tubbo thinks he's going to open his mouth and spill everything. 

He swallows the words.

With Techno driving, he's home in barely five minutes. Techno idles by his front door.

“Um, Tubbo.” Techno says, sounding like he's ready to be done with communication as a whole and live in the woods. 

“Yeah?”

“If you ever need anything,” Techno says, “you can come to us.”

Tubbo stares at him, eyes slightly wet. 

Why is everyone being so nice to him today?

“I…” Tubbo swallows and blinks the tears out of his eyes. “Thank you.”

Techno nods. They sit there in silence for a minute as Tubbo tries to get his breathing under control. 

“You can get out of the car now.”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

Tubbo feels strange as he walks to the door. He feels— it's embarrassing, but he feels  _ held.  _ Everyone's been so nice to him today. His chest has gone all warm. 

Tubbo opens the door and is hit with a deep chill. 

“Oh, Jesus,” he mutters to himself, reflexively crossing his arms. The cold buries itself under his damp skin immediately. He doesn't bother to take off his sweatshirt first, heading straight for the thermostat. 

He flips up the cover. The screen is dark. 

Tubbo squints at it. Even when it's idle, it glows faintly blue. When Tubbo presses the buttons it doesn't turn on. He's starting to shiver faintly, now, and feels a lump of nervousness in his throat. 

Tubbo stands in the hallway, dripping water onto the floor, googling what might be wrong with it. The only conclusion his searches lead him to is that it's broken. Great. He's shivering in earnest now, and the heat’s broken. 

Tubbo is far from eager for another phone conversation with his mum after Saturday, which sends guilt spiking through his heart, but he pulls out his phone and calls her anyway. 

It rings. And rings. And rings. 

_ Your call has been forwarded to an automated—  _

Tubbo hangs up, shaking, feeling a sluice of frustration drip hot and thick in his chest. He’s freezing, he's wet, he’s tired, he just wants to change out of his clothes and take a nap, but the heat is broken and his mum  _ won't answer the phone.  _

He tries again. It rings. And rings. And—

“Tubbo, please, I was in a meeting.”

The frustration evaporates in an instant, guilt flooding the space it leaves. “Oh,” Tubbo says, face burning. “I'm— I'm sorry, I—”

“It's fine,” she sighs, short and sharp, in a way that tells him it is definitely  _ not _ fine. “What do you need?”

“I— um, the heat is broken.” Tubbo’s voice sounds too small and weak for his liking, so he clears his throat and repeats, louder, “The heat is—”

“I heard you, Tubbo, I'm just— I'm just processing.” She sounds stressed. She sounds really stressed, and it's Tubbo’s fault. 

“I'm sorry,” he says quietly. 

“We can't leave.” 

Quieter, he says, “I know.”

His mum sighs again, and Tubbo wilts a little bit. “Listen, it's Spring, it's warm, so I'm sorry, but you're just going to have to stick it out until we get home.”

Tubbo blinks. He tells himself the stinging in his eyes is from the cold. “So— so you’re not going to get it fixed?”

“We will when we get back, it’s just not a priority right now.” She’s enunciating every word sharply like she does when she’s really annoyed. Tubbo takes a shallow, trembling breath. “Now, I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”

And with that, she hangs up. 

Tubbo wants to sink to the floor right fucking now. No, scratch that— he wants to sink  _ through  _ the floor, down through layers of dirt and stone all the way to the center of the earth. 

He settles for sitting down, knees up against his chest, back to the wall. Being scrunched up like this pushes the freezing, wet fabric of his sweatshirt into his skin, but he can’t bring himself to care.  _ Not a priority. _

He knows. He knew that already. It shouldn’t hurt.

Why does it hurt?

Tubbo has the horrible urge to call Tommy, to spill all of this hurt out of him in pitiful wheezing sobs. His phone is right there. It would be so easy. 

But he’d never forgive himself for it. 

Tommy would have no way out, then. He’s too kind, too generous, too willing to put up with all of Tubbo’s  _ bullshit _ that if Tubbo threw a pity party for himself Tommy would have no choice but to stay with him forever, regardless of whether he wanted to. Tubbo can’t do that to him.

So he rests his head on his knees and lets the tears drip down his cheeks. His jeans are already wet, it's okay. No one will know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate to say it but things.... kind of only get worse from here......... BUT THERE IS COMFORT AT THE END MAKE NO MISTAKE
> 
> speaking of twitch streaming (no one was) i'm streaming minecraft tonight and i'm gonna be going to end cities to loot them so check it out if that interests you :] have a good day and be kind to yourselves you silly geese


	3. to hear sounds of people

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tubbo just— he just feels like shit. 
> 
> He’s freezing. His head hurts and he’s pretty sure he’s out of pain medication. He feels so… pathetic— the heat’s only been broken for four days, but the thought of going home makes him want to cry. His lips are chapped and his back aches and he gets dizzy every time he stands up.
> 
> Tommy shoots him another pitying glance when he yawns again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO BOYS HOW ARE WE TODAY
> 
> short chapter (shapter) this time my bad but don't worry! the next two chapters should be longer i think. also i wrote this chapter and then entirely rewrote it so it had a hopeful ending you're welcome
> 
> once again i want to give each and every one of you who commented on the last two chapters a gentle kiss you guys are the fucking best

“He’s… let him sleep… needs it…” 

Tubbo shuts his eyes tighter, trying to cling to the comforting heaviness of sleep, but he can feel it slipping away. The surface his head is resting on is hard and cold. Someone is running their fingers through his hair.

“… just worried that... don’t know what to do.”

Suddenly, with a lurch of discomfort, Tubbo realizes it’s  _ him  _ that they’re talking about in those low, worried tones. 

“I just— I feel so  _ bad _ for him.” 

Well  _ now  _ he’s awake. 

Tubbo sits up too fast, Tommy jerking away in his periphery. Oh, Jesus, head rush. Tubbo blinks the grey out of his vision. They’re at their usual lunch table in the corner of the cafeteria. He has no idea what time it is. 

“Morning, bitch,” Tommy says, near-soft, next to him on the bench. He’s smiling, but his eyebrows are knitted together in an edge of pity that everyone seems to have when they look at Tubbo these days. 

Tubbo yawns. His head hurts. His eyes feel sticky. “How long was I out for?”

“Twenty minutes, maybe?” Ranboo pipes up. “It didn’t take you that long to fall asleep.” He pauses. “You should eat something.”

Tubbo yawns again. “Mm, I’m fine,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes. The truth is, he still hasn’t gone grocery shopping, and when he woke up this morning his head felt so foggy that he completely forgot to scrape together a lunch.

“Nope,” Tommy says sharply, and pushes half his sandwich towards him. Tubbo’s cheeks heat.  _ I feel so bad for him.  _

But refusing would be rude, and Tommy would look at him with that heartbreakingly confused expression, so even though he isn’t that hungry, he mumbles a “thanks” and chews it in small, mechanical bites. Tommy seems satisfied, if not outright pleased. Tubbo can’t believe how purely  _ good  _ he is sometimes. 

Ranboo and Tommy start up a conversation about one of Ranboo’s classes, and Tubbo pretends not to notice that they’re talking much quieter than usual. 

Tubbo just— he just feels like  _ shit _ . 

He’s freezing. His head  _ hurts  _ and he’s pretty sure he’s out of pain medication. He feels so…  _ pathetic— _ the heat’s only been broken for four days, but the thought of going home makes him want to cry. His lips are chapped and his back aches and he gets dizzy every time he stands up.

Tommy shoots him another pitying glance when he yawns again. 

Tubbo wishes he could hold Tommy’s face and yell at him, tell him that he doesn’t have to feel so  _ obligated,  _ tell him to be self-preserving for once and drop Tubbo while he still can. He’d be better off.

Woah. That’s a dark thought. 

Tubbo groans quietly, not willing to examine it, and puts his head back down. Tommy’ll probably let him sleep through the rest of lunch, even though he didn’t finish the food. Something about that makes his chest ache.

-

Tommy wakes him up again when the bell rings. Ranboo’s already left, but apparently he told Tommy to tell Tubbo “to get some fucking sleep.” Tubbo is  _ very _ skeptical that that’s what he said, despite Tommy swearing up and down those were his exact words. 

They’re walking out of the lunchroom, Tubbo swallowing another yawn. The silence between them is charged for a reason Tubbo doesn’t want to identify.

Tommy clears his throat. “Wilbur wants to know why you haven’t been texting him.”

Tubbo very nearly says  _ yeah, right _ before he catches himself. That’s… he doesn’t like that he thought that. He shakes his head a little and says, “I’ve been busy.”

Tommy continues, as if Tubbo didn’t say anything. “He whines about it all the time.  _ Where’s Tubbo, I miss Tubbo.  _ You’d think  _ you’re _ his little brother instead of me.”

Oh. Oh, that stings. 

Tubbo doesn’t know what hurts most about it— the mocking tone he uses, as if he’s saying  _ this is ridiculous _ , or the  _ instead of me.  _ Sometimes he thinks Tommy can read his mind, knows about his embarrassing, guilty, shameful wishes, and just says these things to taunt him. 

But Tommy isn’t that cruel. Tommy’s joking, because he’s Tommy, and because no one in their right mind would think that Tubbo would get so attached he’d start fantasizing about being a brother to someone who’s probably only keeping him around out of pity.

And he doesn’t  _ like _ to think that, he doesn’t like  _ that  _ he thinks that, but deep down Tubbo just… knows. There’s no way Tubbo means as much to Tommy as Tommy does to him. That’s just how it is. 

That’s just how it  _ always  _ is. 

“You should—” Tommy looks away, hands twisting in an uncharacteristic display of nerves. “You should stay with us. Until your parents get back.”

Tubbo closes his eyes. “Tommy…”  _ You don’t have to do this,  _ he wants to say.  _ You don’t have to pretend like you want that. None of you want that.  _

“You won’t have to make your own lunches and shit. Phil can do it for you—” 

“What can I say to get you to leave it alone?” Tubbo snaps, not bothering to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. 

Tommy recoils a little, steps faltering. His eyes flick around Tubbo’s face. He looks hurt. 

Guilt pools in Tubbo’s chest. He stops walking.

“Sorry,” he says in a small voice, ashamed. “I’m just tired.”

Tommy’s hurt expression deepens, for reasons Tubbo can’t understand. He strides two steps and wraps Tubbo in a hug. “‘S okay,” Tommy says into his hair.

It’s taking all of Tubbo’s focus not to break down in tears. Tommy is so warm and loving and  _ kind _ . Tommy is so much kinder than he deserves.

-

He feels marginally better in last period, which he has with Tommy. It’s history, and their teacher, who may be the nicest woman on planet earth, lets Tubbo record the lectures so he can listen back to them later instead of having to take notes. He naps almost the entire class, ankle linked with Tommy’s under the table. Nobody disturbs him. 

Tubbo doesn’t know why he’s so tired today. 

“You’re sick,” Tommy says when he voices this, as the rest of the class is packing up around them. He was woken up by the final bell ringing. Tommy’s looking at him like he’s stupid.

“No, I’m not,” Tubbo replies, clumsily putting his notebooks in his backpack and zipping it up with shaking hands. “I would know if I was—” yawn, “sick.”

Turns out, Tommy does a great impression of Techno’s flat look. “Would you?”

“Yes,” Tubbo says stubbornly. 

“You’re sleeping over tonight, right?” 

Tubbo grasps his backpack straps, stifling another yawn. “Can’t. I have to do laundry.”

Tommy’s silent. Tubbo turns to glance at him, and he looks— nervous? Tubbo doesn’t remember the last time he saw Tommy nervous. Tommy says, “Um, tomorrow, then? It’s Saturday, innit?” 

Tubbo blinks. He sounds… desperate, almost. “Uh, sure.”

Tommy swallows audibly, then fast as lightning hugs Tubbo tight. “Don’t bail on me,” he whispers, with a strange thinness to his voice. 

“I— I won’t?” Tubbo replies, bemusement thick in his throat. Why is he acting like this? 

Tommy nods, gives Tubbo a squeeze, then strides off to Techno’s car, leaving Tubbo very confused. Absently, he touches the spot on his face where Tommy’d pressed his cheek against Tubbo’s. It’s still warm. 

He starts his walk home. 

Later he’ll forget to go shopping and fall asleep in a pile of clean laundry. He’ll wake up cold. 

But for now there’s a fragile, cautious lukewarm feeling in his chest, like maybe things will be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stream last night was AWESOME thank you to everyone who could make it :D 
> 
> guys never eat pocky and then drink orange soda. i'm surgically removing my tongue BAD TASTE
> 
> anyway. have a good day and all that love you guys sm <3


	4. venus, planet of love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This_ , Tubbo thinks, _is going to suck._
> 
> And that’s not a thought he’s often, or ever, had before going over to Tommy’s house. He feels guilty for it immediately. Nothing’s changed — nothing about their behavior, at least — save for Wilbur’s absence, he’s just… starting to notice things that he didn’t, before. Seeing things clearer, maybe. 
> 
> His head hurts. He’s so tired, and he _just_ woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey besties 
> 
> i told you i wouldn't keep that chapter a day thing up but i finished it at 1am so technically i could've posted it then but i chose not to! for my HEALTH. also because i had a show last night and ungodly amounts of homework 
> 
> this chapter is dedicated to weirdguyinthebushes i love their fics especially their most recent, which punted me into the path of a semi-truck going 100mph. grabby hands and you shall receive my friend
> 
> this chapter fought me the entire way through and though it's got HANDS i like to think i kicked its ass
> 
> i'm just excited for next chapter because it's my favorite :] so you should be excited too!!!

Tubbo wakes up late and freezing. 

Since Monday he’s been sleeping in sweatshirts and two pairs of socks under three comforters— he’s fallen asleep in his jeans, amidst the laundry he was putting off folding. He’s been shivering in his sleep, he thinks.

Tubbo swallows hard. His mouth feels dry. His head hurts. The cold goes all the way down to the marrow of his bones. 

It’s ten-thirty in the morning, and Tubbo usually gets to Tommy’s house around noon on Saturdays, so he needs to move quickly. He changes out of his jeans into sweatpants and puts a sweatshirt on, and every time his ice-cold hands touch the lukewarm skin of his abdomen he flinches. 

He catches a glimpse of visible ribs in the mirror and looks away quickly. He knows he’s lost weight. He doesn’t want to think about it.

Tubbo has no one to talk to, so he doesn’t realize how scratchy his voice is until he reads an email aloud, and then he’s aware of the ache in his throat. Just another thing to add to the list, he supposes. Maybe Tommy was right. Maybe he _is_ sick. 

_This,_ Tubbo thinks, _is going to suck._

And that’s not a thought he’s often, or ever, had before going over to Tommy’s house. He feels guilty for it immediately. Nothing’s changed — nothing about _their_ behavior, at least — save for Wilbur’s absence, he’s just… starting to notice things that he didn’t, before. Seeing things clearer, maybe. 

His head hurts. He’s so tired, and he _just_ woke up.

Tubbo tosses pajamas into a bag at random. He packs his toothbrush, even though he hasn’t brushed his teeth regularly for weeks. Wallet. Phone charger. 

God. He still has to go grocery shopping. 

He’ll do it in the morning, Tubbo thinks. He just has to hope that the energy he gets from spending time with Tommy is enough to carry him through. He just has to hope he _gets_ energy from spending time with Tommy.

It’s eleven-forty now, so Tubbo leaves his house and locks the door behind him. It’s warmer outside, marginally, but he still feels cold. At least the scratchiness of his throat has faded.

He turns to start his walk and sees Techno’s car parked in his driveway. 

Tubbo balks. Techno rolls down the window and calls, “Can we speed up the realization this time? I’m here to pick you up. Tommy’s been botherin’ me all morning about gettin’ you home.”

“I—” Tubbo swallows. He is not going to cry again. He is _not_ going to cry again. The car is warm when he gets in, but his shivering doesn’t ebb.

Techno eyes him carefully. “You okay?”

Tubbo nods. 

“You’re shaking,” Techno points out.

“‘M cold.”

Techno turns up the heat. Tubbo has a feeling it won’t help.

The drive is quiet, but against his will, Tubbo can feel himself starting to relax in Techno’s presence. He doesn’t know if he deserves the comfort the whole family offers him, but— but maybe he can have it. Just this once. He’ll do better next time, but for now— for now he’s tired and cold and sick and empty, and already the pressure on his chest has lessened from being near Tommy’s family. 

As they’re pulling up to the house, Techno frowns at him. “Are you sick?” 

Tubbo shrugs. 

Tommy’s on them as soon as they’re through the door, near-tackling Tubbo in a hug with a dramatic, “ _Finally!_ Fuck, I thought I was going to die of boredom!”

Tubbo manages a smile. “Clingy,” he says. 

Tommy opens his mouth to respond, but his mock outrage is interrupted by a frown and he pulls Tubbo closer again. “You’re warm.”

Tubbo shrugs him off. “I’m fine.”

Tommy doesn’t look convinced, but he turns to Techno and says, “Techno, play Super Mario Galaxy with us.”

“Which one is it?”

“The first one. We don’t even have the second one.”

“Yes, we do.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do. I bought it myself.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, harder. Tubbo briefly worries he’ll sprain them. “I would know if we had Super Mario Galaxy 2, you stupid piece of—” 

“This is irrelevant. I can’t play anyway, I have to talk to Phil about something.” Techno’s eyes flick to Tubbo for a millisecond. Tubbo doesn’t get time to examine it before Tommy grabs his bicep and drags him up to his room. 

They sit on the floor, as they always do when playing video games, and Tommy scoots all the way close to him and presses up against his side, like a cat that wants attention but is too proud to admit it. He's warm, as always. Tubbo leans into the touch. 

Tubbo feels like he used to, kind of, chest light and warm. Well. Metaphorically. In a literal sense he is still very cold. 

Mario falls almost every level when Tubbo’s controlling it. The third time it happens Tommy levels a glare at him, but his gaze catches on Tubbo’s hands. His expression softens. “Your hands are shaking.”

Tubbo looks down. They are. “Oh,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Wh— don't _apologize_. That's not a— you're a moron.”

“...Sorry.”

Tommy’s expression goes flat. “I'm gonna kill you.” And he tackles him.

-

They've finished wrestling by the time Phil calls them for dinner, Tubbo yielding far quicker than usual because he’s very very lightheaded. Tommy casts him a worried glance when he has to grab onto the wall after standing. Tubbo gives him a shaky thumbs-up.

When they get downstairs, Phil’s made soup and grilled cheese. Tubbo realizes with a jolt that he hasn’t eaten since lunch yesterday, the half-sandwich Tommy gave him. It unnerves him. It unnerves him more that he didn’t notice. 

Tommy, as if reading his mind, looks sharply at him. “When did you eat last?”

“This morning.” The lie slips out before he can think about it. It makes something twist in the pit of his stomach. 

He doesn’t lie to Tommy. He _never_ lies to Tommy. In a hypothetical situation where Tommy liked surprise parties, he might, but that’s not the reality they live in ‘cause Tommy hates surprise parties with a passion. So he doesn’t. Lie. To Tommy.

He can’t help but feel like this is marking some kind of change in their relationship, or maybe some kind of change in _him_ , and it makes him sick enough that he fully puts his spoon down. He’s not hungry anymore. He’s not sure he was in the first place. 

“You okay, mate?” Phil asks. Tubbo’s head snaps up, and suddenly he feels the eyes of all three of them on him, with varying degrees of worry. Tubbo shivers. 

“Uh-huh,” he says. Tommy in particular is looking at him with poorly-masked pity, like he’s about to crumble to pieces. Hell, maybe he is. “I’m just— I’m not feeling too well.”

Phil frowns. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, genuinely sounding it. “How about you go lie down for a bit? We’ll save your soup for if you want it later.”

Tubbo nods and stands on unsteady feet, gripping the back of the chair to keep from keeling over. He’s dizzy. “Thank you,” he says in a small voice.

Techno shoots Phil a look as he leaves. 

Tubbo wanders to the living room. He doesn’t bother turning the lights on, just switches on a lamp by the couch and sits, drawing his knees up to his chest. He feels— he doesn’t know what he feels. 

Resting his head sideways on his knees, Tubbo catches sight of a picture on the side table. 

It’s Techno, Tommy, Wilbur, and Phil. Probably a year or so after Tommy was adopted, judging by the very ten-year-old missing teeth and goofy grin. Wilbur looks to have been going through his emo phase, in a black hoodie, hair covering one eye, but he’s smiling. Techno hadn’t started dyeing his hair yet, but he had started growing it out, and it’s in a poofy little ponytail. Phil looks radiant with joy, arms around all three of his sons. 

All _three_ of his sons.

They’re a family. Phil, Wilbur, Techno, Tommy. _That’s_ a family. Tubbo is not Tommy’s brother, or Wilbur’s or Techno’s, and he’s not Phil’s son. Tubbo has a family. Tubbo has a family that gives him the exact amount of attention he needs. 

...Deserves. 

Tubbo turns his head and buries his face in his knees, heart plummeting. They’re too nice. They’re too nice to tell him he’s imposing, that he doesn’t belong there, but they know it and he knows it and he wishes they would just _tell_ him instead of wasting their energy pretending. 

Tubbo feels a hand on his shoulder and jolts, looking up. It’s Phil. 

Fuck. He doesn’t trust himself not to cry right now. He doesn’t want to know what would happen if he does.

“You alright?”

Tubbo nods. Phil doesn’t look convinced. “Soup’s in the fridge, and the grilled cheese is in aluminum foil by the toaster oven.” He pauses, gaze flickering— it lands on Tubbo’s hands, his face, his back. “Try to eat, okay?”

Tubbo feels his face heat and nods again. 

“You can come to any of us if you need anything,” Phil continues, impossibly soft, impossibly gentle. His hand on Tubbo’s shoulder is warm. 

There’s a tugging in Tubbo’s chest to _run hide get away_ that he’s always had when faced with that soft kind of worry, and it’s worse than ever, now. Tubbo barely manages a “thank you” before he shoots off the couch and up the stairs to Tommy’s room. 

When he opens the door, Tommy says, “Thank God. I thought you’d died.” He looks up when Tubbo doesn’t answer, still as a statue in the doorway, hand still on the knob. His brows furrow. “Are you okay?”

“I think I’m gonna go home.” The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop himself. Tubbo’s having a hard time breathing evenly around the heavy, aching hollowness in his chest, and it shows in his voice: unsteady and weak. 

Tommy reels back, looking hurt. “What? Why?”

“I just, I don’t feel good,” Tubbo swallows, mouth dry, “and— and I don’t want to get you sick.”

Tommy’s shaking his head before Tubbo finishes. “It’s after dark, you’re not walking home by yourself, and Techno won’t drive you.”

“I’ll get Phil to, then.”

Tommy stands. His face is some terrible mixture between hurt and worry, and it carves the pit in Tubbo’s stomach even deeper. He just can’t stop causing Tommy grief, can he? Tommy says, quietly, “Why do you want to leave so bad?”

“I just—” Tubbo shuts his eyes, feeling awfully shaky, head aching, and exhales sharply in frustration. “I just _do,_ okay, Tommy?”

There’s a silence. Tubbo opens his eyes cautiously and Tommy’s face is so open and hurt — _wounded_ — that he can barely look at it. 

Tubbo shivers. He can’t bring himself to apologize because the hurt and the numbness has spread to his mouth, where _I’m sorry_ sits on the tip of his tongue, unsaid, along with _see, you’re better off without me, I keep hurting you._

Tommy takes a deep breath, looking away. “Well,” he says quietly, “you can ask Phil to drive you, but he won’t.”

“Okay.” Tubbo opens the door and leaves quickly, desperate to get out of the air charged with sickening tension and hurt feelings, desperate to get _away._

Tubbo walks downstairs, feeling shakier and more nauseous with every step. He hurt Tommy’s feelings. He lied to him. He’s about to lie again, because there’s no way Phil will take him home if he tells him his parents aren’t there. 

“Phil,” he says, hating the way his voice sounds small.

Phil turns from where he’s washing dishes and grabs a towel, drying his hands and giving Tubbo a smile. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“Um, I’m— I wanna go home.” And he sounds so pathetic as he stands there in the doorway like a child, twisting his hands together, and his heart’s beating too hard in his chest and his face feels hot and he’s breathing unevenly and—

“Woah, woah, woah,” Phil says, skirting around the kitchen island and putting gentle hands on Tubbo’s upper arms. “Hey, breathe, it’s okay. Did something happen?”

“I’m sick. I wanna go home,” Tubbo repeats. 

Phil puts a gentle hand on Tubbo’s forehead and nods. “You’re warm, for sure. Have you told your parents?”

“Um… n-no.” Not technically a lie.

Phil’s hand moves to Tubbo’s cheek and he pats it once. Lightly admonishing, he says, “Well, mate, maybe that’d be a good idea.” He pauses. “Are you sure you want to go home?”

Tubbo nods. A chill trickles down his spine and he’s wracked with shivers. Phil’s grip tightens a little bit. He looks Tubbo up and down, brows knit into a worried furrow. 

“Tell your parents to take you to the doctor tomorrow, alright? I’ll take you home, but I want you to make sure your parents know.”

Tubbo nods, not trusting himself to speak. Lying, lying, lying.

“And I’m sending you with the soup. And the grilled cheese.”

“Okay.”

The drive is silent. Tubbo pulls his knees to his chest again and rests his head on them, looking out the window. 

Briefly, he entertains the idea of telling his parents. He wonders if that would make them feel guilty, that he got sick because it was cold in the house. He wonders if he wants them to feel guilty. He wonders if that makes him a bad person. 

Before he gets out of the car, Phil puts a hand on his arm. “Take care of yourself, okay?” he says, in a voice that seems all too knowing. His eyes are warm and gentle and worried and Tubbo could scream with how much it makes him want to hide. 

He nods and gets out of the car as quickly as possible. 

When he gets inside, he goes to drop his keys in the handmade dish and stops. Stares.

His parents had been so proud when he brought it home.

...Had they?

Tubbo sways a little and before he can think anything of it, plucks the dish off the table and shoves it in one of the drawers. He hangs his keys on the hook. 

_sorry,_ he texts Tommy later in bed, coughing into his elbow, throat thick with guilt, music playing on his phone because he can’t convince himself he likes the silence anymore. 

_Its ok._

It’s not. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter should be out sunday probably
> 
> there is a small chance i'll get it out tomorrow before 4 but probably not and then i have two shows and various social engagements as i am just THAT popular 
> 
> anyway yeah i know things got sad in this chapter but rest easy knowing that it gets worse <3 but chapter 10 is all fluff you guys. ALL fluff so just hold on y'all 
> 
> EDIT: idk what was wrong with me before but now my twitch is ACTUALLY linked in the end notes so skdjfhskdfh i'm so sorry
> 
> have a good day and be kind to yourselves :] <3


	5. was destroyed by global warming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t have anyone to write me a sick note, big man,” Tubbo says, and coughs again. “‘M not good at forging signatures.” He doesn’t know why he’s saying stuff like this. He doesn’t tell people these things, other than Tommy. 
> 
> “What… what do you mean?” Ranboo asks cautiously. 
> 
> “Mmm, my parents’ve been gone for like… two weeks, now?” Tubbo squints, trying to do the mental math, but his thoughts are all slippery and the numbers aren’t cooperating. “They get back on the third.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO BOYS you get a longer chapter today just because :D
> 
> this one turned out pretty differently than i was imagining before i wrote it but i think it's still good even though it kinda took me by the throat yk 
> 
> and guys... it's sad, i'm not gonna lie to you, so don't feel bad if you want to just kind of skim these next few chapters that's fine
> 
> but if you like angst like me then Enjoy >:]

“Oh, wow,” Ranboo says as Tubbo approaches their lunch table.

Tubbo collapses into a chair. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Tubbo’s head is much too foggy to do anything but take that at face value. He coughs into his elbow and clamps the other hand on the table ‘cause otherwise he’s afraid he’ll pitch sideways out of the chair. He’s shivering, again. Still. He’s not sure the shivering has stopped since Monday, and that was three days ago. 

He knows he’s gotten sicker. A lot sicker, probably. He doesn’t have a bad immune system, but he guesses the combination of not eating and spending days in the kind of cold that cuts down to your bones will keep you from getting better. 

Tubbo ordered groceries on Sunday, so technically he could have made a lunch, but he barely made it to school this morning at all. And he’s not hungry, anyway. 

“Where’s Tommy?” Tubbo asks through a yawn, voice raspy. He swallows another cough and clumsily rubs his hand on his opposite bicep, trying to keep warm.

“He has an orthodontist appointment,” Ranboo says. “Do you want my jacket? You’re shivering.”

Tubbo nods. Ranboo takes off his jacket — black and white with sherpa lining, nice — and wraps it around Tubbo’s shoulders. It’s warm. Tubbo melts into it. “Thank you,” he mumbles. 

Ranboo puts a hand on his forehead. Boy, his hands are cold. He must have bad circulation, being all tall and lanky like that. Not enough blood to get all the way down his arms.

Ranboo recoils and gives him a _very_ worried look. “Tubbo, you’re burning up. That’s like— that has to be like 102, at least.”

“What is that?”

“Uhhh, like 39 degrees Celsius?” 

“Oh.” Tubbo tugs the jacket tighter around himself as he’s wracked with another chill. “That’s— that’s kinda funny.”

Ranboo gives him a weird look. “What?”

“I dunno, just like— I dunno. It’s funny.”

Ranboo blinks at him. “Okay, you’re delirious.”

Tubbo sighs. “I miss Wilbur.”

“You should go home. Like, really. You _really_ should go home.”

“Don’t have anyone to write me a sick note, big man,” Tubbo says, and coughs again. “‘M not good at forging signatures.” He doesn’t know why he’s saying stuff like this. He doesn’t tell people these things, other than Tommy. 

“What… what do you mean?” Ranboo asks cautiously. 

“Mmm, my parents’ve been gone for like… two weeks, now?” Tubbo squints, trying to do the mental math, but his thoughts are all slippery and the numbers aren’t cooperating. “They get back on the third.”

Ranboo pales considerably. “Hold on, your parents are leaving you alone for an entire _month?_ ” 

“It’s fine.” Tubbo yawns. “They do it all the time.”

“That— _surely_ you can see how that doesn’t make it better.”

“They’ve never left for a month before, just two weeks at a time, usually, but this time there was a thing, and a promotion, and a ‘high-profile account,’ so—”

“That’s…” Ranboo looks at him for a long time. “That’s not okay."

“Mm, ‘s fine,” Tubbo repeats. 

“No, it's—” Ranboo pauses, then takes one of Tubbo’s hands in his own. “It’s not. Your parents should take care of you.”

Tubbo mumbles, “They would if I deserved it.” Uh oh. He'd meant to say _needed_. He doesn't know why— He— 

Ranboo is looking absolutely heartbroken at him, and says, “Tubbo…” 

“Didn't mean that.” Tubbo coughs again, face hot, and pulls his hand away, wrapping his arms around himself. “I didn't mean that. Don't worry about it.”

“You— of course I’m going to—”

“Can I sleep?” Tubbo interrupts, a pitiful whine to his voice. He wants to stop thinking for a little bit. He's so tired. 

Ranboo bites his lip. He looks— Tubbo doesn't even know, but he’s in some kind of pain, pain that Tubbo himself caused. This is what happens when he gets self-pitying. 

“Of course. Of course you can. I'll— I'll make sure no one wakes you.” 

Tubbo yawns. “Thanks, big man.” 

He's grateful for Ranboo. Really, really grateful. As he puts his head in his arms, he feels a gentle hand rubbing his back and wants to cry. 

-

Tubbo barely makes it to school the next day.

No, really. He stumbles into first period and thinks, _how did I get here?_ because he doesn’t remember anything past waking up in the morning. He knows he must have walked, because that’s the only way he can get to school, but he genuinely has no memory of the journey. He’d probably be concerned by that if his head wasn’t so foggy. 

He doesn’t remember any of his first class either, but it’ll probably be fine. Vaguely, Tubbo remembers that they’re doing a paper in second period English that he’s already finished, so he’ll be able to just nap or talk to Tommy the whole time. Thank god. 

Well, talking to Tommy is— a mixed bag, at this point. But still better than classwork.

Unlike yesterday, when he was relatively talkative, today Tubbo is outright miserable. He can’t stand without waves of dizziness and trembling legs. He’s freezing and sweaty and feels every cough he stifles rattle through his ribcage and his head pounds and he wants nothing more than to curl up in his bed and cry. 

Tommy immediately fixes him with a stare when he walks in. The awkwardness that’s been hanging between them since the sleepover tugs at Tubbo’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Tubbo says, voice rasping, instead of _hi._ He doesn’t quite know why, but he guesses with fever loosening his tongue, everything he’s feeling just kind of— spills out.

Tommy looks taken aback. “Wh— I already said it was okay, big man.” He then puts a hesitant (too hesitant) hand on Tubbo’s arm and flinches back, same as Ranboo did. “What the fuck?”

“I know, I know.”

“No, _what the fuck?_ ” Tommy says, feeling Tubbo’s forehead, wiping some of the sweat from his too-flushed face. “You’re fucking sick! You are _incredibly_ fucking sick. Go home.”

Tubbo flinches as another chill runs down his spine. He thinks he can feel his bones rattling. Without thinking, he says, “If you don’t want me around you can just say so.”

Tommy pauses. “ _What?_ ”

Oh, shit. He should not have said that.

“Mmm, that was a joke,” Tubbo says. Saved it.

Or maybe not, because Tommy’s face does— _something_ , something not-good, and he closes his eyes and says, “Actually, you’re not going home. Fuck if I’m letting you literally _die_ in that house all by yourself with no one to fucking take care of you—”

Ha, and he doesn’t even know the heat is out. That’s funny. 

“I can take care of—”

“Will you _stop saying that?_ ” Tommy snaps. 

Tubbo thinks, _finally,_ and says nothing, looking down.

Tommy makes a frustrated noise and Tubbo curls in on himself, clutching his ice-cold hands to his chest. “No, fuck, I didn’t mean— I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Tubbo thinks, _yes, you did, but it’s okay,_ but only the last part comes out.

Tommy’s shaking his head after the first syllable. “It’s not okay, _fuck_ , I’m just— I’m _worried_ about you.”

He’s switching angles now, Tubbo guesses, because Tommy is kind. Because Tommy has been so patient, so so patient with him, as he fucks up over and over again, as he’s stupid and attention-seeking and _clingy._ But even Tommy has a threshold. 

“You don’t have to be,” Tubbo says, and coughs into the sleeve of Ranboo’s jacket. Fuck, he should really give that back.

…After he washes it. 

Tommy is looking at him with a very weird expression. Usually Tubbo’s better at reading him. If he had to guess, he’d say Tommy looks afraid, but that doesn’t make sense, so he decides not to guess. 

Tommy looks at him like that for a long time. Finally, he says, “Okay. I’m going over to your house after school. I’m gonna bring Phil’s soup, ‘cause you’re too fucking—” Tommy gestures to kind of… all of him, and Tubbo doesn't know what he means— “and I’m gonna skip school tomorrow and stay there until you’re better.”

“Tommy, you can’t—”

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me what to do.” 

No, but he really _can’t,_ though. Because, Tubbo thinks, in a terrifying moment of clarity, if Tommy comes over he will find out the heat is broken. And Tubbo will either have to tell him that it’s been broken for a week and a half without him knowing, or Tubbo will have to lie to him. 

Which means Tubbo needs to think of an excuse for Tommy _not_ to come, because clearly his pity is stronger than Tubbo’s logic. And for once, the universe is on Tubbo’s side.

“B-but you have that huge chemistry lab due tomorrow, remember? You’ve not started it, you said.” 

Tommy’s face drops. He looks to the side and swears under his breath. 

Tommy is failing chemistry, which means Phil will make sure he does his best on every assignment in a way that he’d be more lax with for other classes. As bad as Tubbo feels about taking advantage of that, it’s incredibly convenient. 

The bell rings. Tubbo stands out of his chair and sways dangerously, head spinning. He puts a shaking hand on the wall. 

“Fuck,” Tommy says, almost to himself. Then, standing and grabbing Tubbo’s — well, Ranboo’s, technically — sleeve, he says, “Go home. I— I can’t be there, but you have to go home. You can check yourself out of school this year, they said.”

Tubbo considers that. As much as he hates the idea of his freezing house, he— he can barely stand. Realistically, he’s not going to make it through the rest of the day. And maybe compromising will make Tommy feel better about himself, like he’s done his part and he’s less obligated to worry now. 

“M’kay,” Tubbo rasps, dragging the sleeve of Ranboo’s jacket down his face. “I’ll go home.” 

Tommy actually smiles at that, albeit small, then hesitantly reaches out and squeezes Tubbo’s hand. Tubbo tries not to cry again. 

-

Tubbo wakes up to the sound of footsteps in the hall. His brain is too hazy to form any coherent thought other than _MURDERER!!!_ , because Tubbo hasn’t heard other people in his house for two weeks, and his heart pounds so hard he can feel it in his fingertips. He’s drenched in sweat and his legs are tangled in one of the six blankets he’s been sleeping with. Two others are kicked onto the floor. 

Tubbo sits up with a jolt, then scrambles out of bed on trembling legs. His vision swims but he’s pretty sure he can make it down the hall if he goes slowly. He needs a weapon. Realistically, a murderer probably has the advantage on a very skinny kid who’s home alone and so sick he can barely stand, but Tubbo likes to think of himself as an optimist, so he grabs one of his ukuleles (his least favorite, the one that never stays in tune) and raises it with shaking hands, resting it on his shoulder. 

Tubbo creeps down the hall, swallowing hard, and nearly runs face-first into Technoblade. 

He drops the ukulele and the dissonant _clang_ of it hitting the hardwood makes them both flinch. Tubbo looks at Techno. Techno looks at Tubbo.

Tubbo’s knees buckle and he collapses. 

Techno makes a sound of surprise (a yelp, almost, which Tubbo finds vague amusement in) and dives to catch him before he hits the ground. He manages to get an elbow under Tubbo’s arm and haul him up before he can bruise himself on the hardwood, which Tubbo is thankful for. If his elbows bruise from being pressed against the arm of his desk chair (which they do, these days), an actual fall would probably have his side painted purple and black for weeks. 

“Oh,” Techno mutters, pulling Tubbo up. “That’s not good.”

“What?”

Techno looks at him. “The bruise thing.”

Haha, _whoops_. 

“Tubbo, it’s freezin’ in here,” Techno continues, picking up the bag he dropped (Tubbo didn’t even notice its existence) and slinging it over his shoulder. He loops an arm around Tubbo’s waist and bends down then in one fluid motion, lifts him up bridal-style. Well, not quite fluid. Techno freezes as soon as Tubbo’s in his arms. 

Tubbo hums questioningly and Techno says, a little pale, “Nothin’. Let’s— let’s get you, y’know.”

“Why’re you here?” Tubbo asks sleepily. Being carried like this is making him feel so humiliatingly _safe_ that he can already feel his eyelids getting heavy with the gentle swaying of Techno’s footsteps. Techno is warm and solid and Tubbo can feel his heartbeat, and he realizes he hasn’t really touched anyone in a while. 

“I’m here to take c—” Techno clears his throat. “To make sure you don’t die. Those were Tommy’s exact orders.”

Ah, Tommy and his loopholes. Tubbo wants to be mad, really, but he feels so— so—

“Y’don’t have to,” Tubbo slurs. It’s to himself as much as it is to Techno. This is nice, and it makes him feel all— 

But he doesn’t need it, he doesn’t deserve it, he’s taking advantage of their kindness and making Techno take time out of his day to come _mother_ him because he’s too pitiful to take care of himself. 

As Techno sets Tubbo gently on the bed, Tubbo catches sight of his alarm clock. It’s 12:32pm. Barely two hours after he got home. Which means— 

“Wh— aren’t you supposed to be in school right now?” Tubbo asks.

Techno shrugs. 

That’s it. Tubbo is officially the worst person in the entire fucking world.

Techno is _skipping school_ for him. Because he couldn’t hold it together. Because he went and was all pitiful in front of Tommy, so _pathetic_ that Tommy couldn’t ignore it. He went and worried Tommy so much he had to drag the rest of the family into it. 

Tubbo really, really hates himself sometimes. 

“Sorry,” he says, struggling to prop himself up on his elbow, and he really is sorry, he’s _sick_ with it, remorse overflowing and spilling out in tearful half-slurred apologies. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t, I’m _sorry_ —” 

“Woah,” Techno says, turning from where he’d set the bag down on Tubbo’s desk. “Woah, woah, woah, don’t— none of that. Don’t apologize.”

“But—” Tubbo sniffles, head pounding. “But I made you skip school.”

“You didn’t _make_ me do anything.” Techno sounds concerned, and uncomfortable. Tubbo’s made him uncomfortable, so he swallows his next apology and stays silent.

Techno reaches into the bag and pulls out a thermometer. He holds it out and says, “Put this under your tongue.”

Tubbo takes it with shaking hands and does so. While they’re waiting for the readout, Techno sits on the edge of his bed and asks, “Why is it so cold in here? Where’s your thermostat?”

Conveniently, Tubbo hums and points to the thermometer in his mouth. Techno nods and looks away. 

It beeps and he takes it out of his mouth, squinting at it, but he can’t make it out in the low light so he hands it to Techno, who inhales sharply.

“What is it?”

Techno says, “It’s, uh, 103, almost. Or… 39.2.”

“Okay.”

“So, the cold—”

“‘M tired,” Tubbo says. Not a lie. “Can I sleep yet?” 

Techno blinks at him. “No, you have to eat somethin’ first. And we’ve gotta get you warm. And you should put more comfortable clothes on.” That’s true, Tubbo is still in his jeans and button-up. He hadn’t even noticed. He doesn't really remember getting dressed this morning. 

“Here,” Techno continues. “I’ll heat up soup while you change.” And he pulls a sweatshirt from his bag, a soft mustard-y yellow color. _Wilbur’s_. He tosses it to Tubbo. “Tommy told me t’give that to you. And these,” and he throws out a pair of pajama pants with a Minecraft diamond pattern on them. 

Tubbo reaches out slowly, cautiously, and grasps the sweatshirt in one hand. It’s soft. So soft. 

Sounding a little embarrassed, Techno says, “I— I told him you probably _had_ clothes, but he wouldn’t shut up about it, so. Here.”

“Thank you,” Tubbo says in a small voice.

Techno clears his throat. “So, yeah. Go put those on, and I’ll make you food.”

Tubbo swallows hard, throat aching, and nods. He stands on unsteady legs and makes his way to the bathroom, where he slowly, clumsily, strips his sweaty jeans and shirt off to replace with soft fabric. Tubbo pulls on the pajama pants, head spinning from bending over, and they pool at his ankles. Of course they do. They’re Tommy’s. The waistband is so loose they fall down immediately, which confuses Tubbo, because Tommy’s clothes usually fit him well in that respect. Whatever. He pulls the drawstring tight, cuffs them and pulls the sweatshirt over his head.

It’s so soft. No, really, it’s _so_ soft. It hangs off him, because Wilbur is tall and Tubbo very much isn’t. He buries his face in the collar and takes a deep breath.

It smells like Wilbur. Like the floral deodorant he used, and the coconut conditioner. For a moment Tubbo feels like he’s getting a hug from him— he can feel Wilbur’s arms around him, one hand lightly scratching the back of his scalp like he always did, chin on his head. It brings tears to his eyes. 

He misses Wilbur so, _so_ much. 

By the time Tubbo’s gathered himself enough to go back into his bedroom, Techno is there, setting a glass of water on his bedside table. The two sweat-soaked blankets have disappeared and been replaced with ones Techno brought. The bed is made. Pill bottles have been set out on the desk.

“So, the heat’s broken,” Techno says as Tubbo gets into bed and draws the covers up around his chin, shivering. Tubbo stays silent. Techno continues, stirring the bowl of soup. “How long’s it been?”

Clumsily, Tubbo tries to lie, “Only— only a couple days. A day, actually. Just one.”

“Tubbo.”

Tubbo curls up tighter, pulling the blankets up more. “A week and a half.” It feels nice not to lie to someone.

“When is it getting fixed?”

“The third.”

Techno pauses. “It’s the twenty-second.” Tubbo shrugs. He’s cold. His thoughts seem hazier by the second.

Finally, Techno asks, “Tubbo, where are your _parents_?”

Uh oh. Tubbo burrows further into the covers and doesn’t reply. 

“Please.” Techno sounds a little more urgent now. He sets the soup down and kneels next to Tubbo's bed, facing him fully. There’s something desperate in his eyes. “Please,” he repeats.

Tubbo coughs. He’s really doing this, isn’t he? He doesn’t have a choice. 

“Gone,” he rasps. “Back on the third. Said— said I had to wait because it wasn’t a priority.”

Techno’s gone stock-still. His eyes are wide. He swallows audibly. “So— so you didn’t tell anyone. Why?”

There are a million things he could say. _I didn’t want to worry you, I didn’t want you to feel obligated, it’s not important, it doesn’t matter, I deserve it,_ but Tubbo, in a moment of lucidity, realizes that for some reason, all of those would make Techno _more_ concerned.

So he just shrugs. 

Techno takes a long, slow breath and shuts his eyes, standing. “So that whole _comin’ to us when you need help_ thing— you kinda suck at that.”

“Sorry.”

Eyes still closed, Techno shakes his head. “Not somethin’ to apologize for.”

“...Sorry—” 

“Soup.”

Tubbo blinks. 

Techno drags his hands over his face and then fixes his gaze on Tubbo. “I’ve got soup for you. I want you to have as much as you can before you sleep.”

Tubbo nods. He doubts that’s going to be much, but he’ll try for Techno.

Techno hands him a warm bowl with brown broth and various vegetables. Phil makes very good vegetable soup. 

After eating about a third of the bowl, Tubbo’s stomach starts to ache something fierce, so he sets it on the bedside table and takes small sips of water. Techno glances in the bowl from where he’s sitting in the desk chair and says, “Is— is that really all you can eat?”

Tubbo nods. Techno looks away. 

“Can I sleep now?” Tubbo asks in a small voice. Techno shakes his head and hands him medicine, which he dutifully takes with water. As Tubbo turns on his side and burrows into the covers, feeling marginally better after the soup, he has a sudden thought.

“Techno,” he says, and he’s humiliated at how childish and broken his voice sounds. “Promise not to tell Phil or Tommy about the heat. And don’t tell Phil about my parents.”

“ _What?_ ”

Tubbo blinks tears out of his eyes. “ _Promise_.”

Techno stares at him. “No. I'm not— I’m not promisin’ that. Tubbo, that’s insane. We’ve gotta get you out of here before you get sicker—”

“No,” Tubbo whines. The hurt, the cold in his chest has returned with a vengeance. It was chased away for a little by Techno’s kindness, but that can only last so long. Tubbo’s telling the truth when he says, “I can’t— I can’t _be_ with you guys. I can’t. I’m better here. It’s better for everyone.” 

Techno’s quiet for a long time. Tubbo knows he agrees, but he’s trying to find a kinder way to let him down. He’s desperately searching for a rebuttal but can’t quite find one.

“That’s not true,” Techno finally says. “It’s not.”

“Please don’t tell them, Techno, please please _please—_ ” Tubbo chokes out, feeling hysterical, crying in earnest now. Techno looks horribly conflicted.

“Okay. I— I won’t.” Techno drags a hand down his face. “But _you_ have to promise to take care of yourself. You can’t be— you can’t be… not eatin’, and— and— just, promise.”

“I’ll try,” Tubbo whispers, and his voice cracks. He doesn't know if it’s a lie or not.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Techno says quietly. “Go to sleep.”

He does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WONDERFUL NEWS!! I AM NOW A TWITCH AFFILIATE!!! or at least i will be once the two-factor authentication stops being a little BITCH (: anyway thank you guys so much for getting me there i seriously didn't expect so many of you to like my streams kJHDKJFHS so thank you thank you thank you!!!
> 
> guys. technoblade might actually be my favorite character to write after tubbo
> 
> ch6 should be out tomorrow or the day after 
> 
> have a good day and be kind to yourself <3


	6. did its people want too much too?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy looks relieved when Tubbo sits down next to him in second period. “You don’t look on the verge of death anymore.”
> 
> “Ha, ha. Very funny.” Tubbo drops his bag next to his chair and pulls out his laptop. There’s a beat. Not looking away from his computer screen, Tubbo says quietly, “Thank you, though. For sending Techno over.”
> 
> “Of course,” Tommy replies, voice uncharacteristically soft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h..hey girl....
> 
> i am SO sorry for the late update boys. i've been Goin Thru It both creatively & mentally & i needed a few days just to get back on track & gather motivation. BUT!! to that point, i promise i'm not giving up on this story & updates should be pretty regular from here on out :]
> 
> loosely related, i should say that, in the least self-deprecating way possible, this chapter is ABSOLUTE GARBAGE. this chapter is TRASH. if this chapter was a person i would kick their ass in the walk-in freezer of a derelict arby's. i'm literally just uploading it because i cannot stand to look at it anymore
> 
> next chapter should hopefully be out tomorrow because i'm quarantined (yaaay) and therefore have more Writing Time 
> 
> anyway. angst is semi-light in this chapter so enjoy!1

Tubbo’s back at school next Monday. 

He’s a lot better. His thoughts are clearer, he’s not shaking all the time now, he’s sleeping more regularly, and — most presently relevant — he’s actually able to pay attention in class. 

He’s got some work to make up for his first class after missing the latter half of last week, but not that much. The teacher stops him on his way out and says, “Tubbo, glad to see you’re feeling better.” He smiles at her.

Tommy looks relieved when Tubbo sits down next to him in second period. “You don’t look on the verge of death anymore.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.” Tubbo drops his bag next to his chair and pulls out his laptop. There’s a beat. Not looking away from his computer screen, Tubbo says quietly, “Thank you, though. For sending Techno over.”

“Of course,” Tommy replies, voice uncharacteristically soft. 

They sit in silence for the rest of the period as Tubbo types away, focusing hard on his research paper. He can tell that Tommy wants to say something, and that he’s waiting for Tubbo to ask.

Tubbo ponders the air between them, the way it’s changed. The comfort, the familiarity has drained, leaving them with a relationship that’s somewhere around  _ acquaintances  _ and barely even  _ friends _ . Tommy’s sitting right next to him, but Tubbo couldn’t feel further away. 

It’s awkward, in a way that it’s never been. Tubbo swallows a lump in his throat and keeps typing. It’s for the best, he reminds himself. He’s doing this for Tommy. 

Besides. He really needs to focus on schoolwork. 

It doesn't change when they walk to third and meet up with Ranboo— Tubbo greets him politely and then puts headphones in, poring over his work, despite the fact that it would really help if someone could read it out to him. 

They exchange goodbyes at the end of the period, but not much else. Tubbo enthusiastically loses himself in worksheets and quizzes in the next few periods, then shoots his, Tommy’s, and Ranboo’s groupchat a text as he walks to the library instead of the cafeteria.  _ Workin on stuff durign lunch wont b there.  _ He puts his phone away before thinking about adding a  _ sorry.  _

Tubbo forgot how much he hates doing schoolwork by himself. Studying with Tommy is fun. Tommy reads worksheets out to him and they toss ridiculous answers back and forth, or make fun of the historical figures, or throw popcorn at each other, and Wilbur comes in and they expect to be scolded but he joins in— 

Not anymore, though. 

Tubbo squints down at his worksheet, rubbing at his temples. It’s okay. He’s got it. He’s getting it together. 

By the time he gets to seventh period, he's exhausted and his head aches but he feels satisfied from the work, like he's actually  _ doing _ something, and his thoughts have been all trigonometry and ionic bonds instead of— other stuff. Tubbo can ignore the fact that Tommy hates him and that he doesn't remember the last time he ate and that he still has Wilbur’s sweatshirt tossed over the back of the couch, as long as he just focuses.

“You had lunch, right?” Tommy asks, as soon as he sits down for seventh period. 

“Yes,” Tubbo lies. This— this being  _ checked up on _ , especially from someone who is only silently tolerating him, feels like acid on his skin. He doesn’t know how someone’s pity can run so deep. 

Tommy gives him a side-eye, but says nothing. 

They’re paired up for the work today, so Tubbo lets himself talk to Tommy like they’re friends, even as he holds himself at arm’s distance. It’s selfish, he knows, because he’s trying to let Tommy go. But Tubbo’s always been clingy. 

“Wanna come over?” Tommy asks at the end of the period. He's affecting nonchalance, but Tubbo can't tell what's underneath. It unsettles him. 

Tubbo grabs his own wrist under the table and digs his nails in to stop himself from saying  _ yes.  _ “I can't, sorry,” he says, looking away to pack up his backpack so he doesn't have to see Tommy’s reaction. “I have a lot of work to catch up on.”

There's a long silence. Tubbo refuses to look up, shoving notebooks and folders and pens into his bag with shaking hands. 

With a note of—  _ something  _ in his voice, Tommy says, “...Tubbo—”

Tubbo whirls around, backpack on his shoulders. “Well, I reckon I should get going. Bye, Tommy! See you tomorrow!”

And with that, he speeds out of the classroom. 

Tubbo pauses somewhere far outside of the school, and leans against a back wall to catch his breath. His arms shake. All he can think is why, why,  _ why—  _

Of course he doesn't want to give up Tommy as a friend. He doesn't want to hurt his feelings. Tommy is his best friend in the entire universe, his platonic soulmate— but he's  _ not _ that to Tommy. And to keep him there with Tubbo’s whining about his parents and— It's just selfish. He's selfish. He’s  _ clingy _ .

No matter how much it hurts, he has to let Tommy go. He owes it to him. 

Tubbo takes a shuddering breath and draws his arms to his chest. He takes a few trembling steps to the sidewalk and starts his way home. 

While walking, Tubbo decides that it's better if he  _ doesn't _ think about Tommy. 

He's going to get himself together. He's going to  _ try _ , he's not going to let himself slip into this— this  _ funk _ again, and things are going to be better. Things are going to be better. 

Tubbo gets home, goes upstairs to his laptop, and orders a space heater. 

He takes a shower, makes himself tea, sits down at the kitchen table with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and does his homework. Working through his headache, the next few hours pass in a blur. 

He’s tired, yeah. His eyes burn and his arms feel weak by the time he's finished, but he got a lot done, and that's what matters. That's what matters. 

Tubbo stretches, back aching, and glances at the clock. It's 8pm. He's not hungry, but what Techno said rings through his head, so he stands to go make dinner anyway. There's a box of mac and cheese in the cabinet, he thinks. Tubbo’s always loved mac and cheese— it's his favorite food, a kind of a comfort food for him. Not that he needs comfort right now.

He boils water, adds in pasta, goes over his notes while he waits for the pasta to cook, adds the cheese powder and stirs. 

It's a little depressing for him to sit alone at the dining room table, but that's what he does. He usually eats there, anyway, even though his parents don’t even have meals with him when they're home. If he wonders why—

If he wonders why, he’ll break down, so he brings his laptop to the table with him and puts it on Netflix. Anything. Anything to fill the silence. 

Tubbo takes three bites of his mac and cheese and his stomach lurches. 

He glares down at the bowl, face flushed. What the fuck. This is so— this is— 

Tubbo forces himself to take another bite and it feels heavy and too-thick going down his throat. 

Okay. So he can’t eat mac and cheese. That’s fine. 

“It’s fine,” he says out loud to himself. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” And maybe his voice cracks at the end of it, and his heart is racing, and he rocks back and forth in his chair a little because what the  _ fuck _ he can’t eat his favorite food anymore, but that’s nothing. He shakes the thoughts off and focuses on the TV show.

Ranboo calls him, much later, after he’s taken another shower and cleaned his room and started a wholly unnecessary load of laundry. He’s sitting at the dining room table again, watching Netflix on his laptop, nursing a full cup of hot chocolate that’s long gone cold.

“Hi,” Ranboo says when he picks up the phone. “Hi, I, uh, usually wouldn’t call because— anyway, but Tommy said that you liked it better than texting, so I just— I thought that I’d— yeah. Anyway, I just wanted to, uh, check on you, because you seemed— I don’t know, you seemed a little—”

“A little what?” Tubbo’s voice comes out higher and more defensive than he intended. It’s probably something to do with the fact that his throat feels tight and his palms are sweat-slick and his breathing’s gone a little funny because  _ why _ do people keep feeling the need to  _ check on him _ , he’s having a hard enough time detaching himself as it is—

Ranboo says finally, “—Down. A little down.” 

Tubbo squeezes his eyes shut, running a hand up and down his opposite arm, trying to smooth down his goosebumps. “I'm fine,” he says. The words are starting to lose meaning. 

There’s a long pause. “ _ Are _ you? Because— because that thing you said about your parents—”

“I’m  _ fine, _ ” Tubbo snaps. “I can take care of myself.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Ranboo sounds more sure and emphatic than Tubbo’s ever heard him, and it makes something twist in Tubbo’s chest. “You’re not  _ supposed _ to have to take care of yourself.”

Tubbo swallows hard. It’s so fucking stupid, but something about this conversation is triggering his fight-or-flight, that needling screeching yank in his chest to  _ run _ and  _ hide _ . “I’m almost an adult,” he chokes out, and it feels flimsy, somehow, in a way that it never has before, and that  _ terrifies  _ him. Because if this isn’t supposed to happen— if, if this is something that’s  _ wrong—  _

“You’re fifteen,” Ranboo says.

“Older than you,” Tubbo retorts, and his voice is far too shaky and far too weak, and Ranboo notices, he has to, because he pauses.

“Okay,” he says, voice soft, and Tubbo feels sick. “Okay. Just— just  _ please _ call me if you need anything.”

Tubbo mumbles something affirmative and hangs up as quickly as he can, dropping the phone like it’s burned him and dragging both hands down his face. All of a sudden Tubbo’s aware of the exhaustion lodged behind his sternum, aching and gaping and heavy, and wants nothing more than to collapse into his bed.

Movements slow, he closes his laptop, turns off the lights, gathers his plethora of blankets he uses as armor against the cold. It never quite works. 

When he’s all settled in, about to go to sleep, Tubbo’s phone chimes. 

From Wilbur:  _ hey tubs miss you. _

A second passes. Tubbo stares at the phone uncomprehendingly. 

Another message comes in:  _ <3. _

Tubbo takes a long, slow breath, turns his phone off, rolls over and goes to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys check out my twitter [here](https://twitter.com/liketheletter_L) i fixed it up & stuff & should be more active on there :] you can also follow my tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/like-theletter) & i'll try to post more MCYT stuff 
> 
> boys i hear suspicious sounds outside my window so if i die tell my twitch chat i love them <3 
> 
> & my head hurts so i'm going to sleep ly guys and thanks for all the support :D have a good day & be kind to yourself

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment of what you liked (or what you didn't) and thanks so much for reading!
> 
> fun news: I AM TWITCH STREAMING!!! check me out [here](https://www.twitch.tv/like_theletter), i stream minecraft (and other things)!!! current schedule is tuesday & wednesday nights at 8pm EST so if that's something you're interested in check it out :D i'm almost at my follower goal so it would be poggers of you to help me get there ly guys
> 
> expect updates once every week or so!! be kind to yourself and stay safe guys


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